


love is a rebellious bird.

by AlwaysInSonder



Series: Holmesbury [3]
Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Enola Holmes Series - Nancy Springer
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But they have their happy ending, F/M, One where Enola turns down Tewky's proposal, eventually, loads and loads of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27546829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysInSonder/pseuds/AlwaysInSonder
Summary: The night is etched deeply in her mind and is unlikely ever to be forgotten - and time will prove that just so - but even that night, when she held back her sobs in the carriage ride to 221B Baker Street and she collapsed into her unsurprised brother’s arms to finally unfold, whatever the reason Enola turned him down, she knows she did it out of love.
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Series: Holmesbury [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962532
Comments: 52
Kudos: 266





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a concept that has been rattling around my head since I've first watched the movie and have considered the many paths to which Enola's and Tewky's relationship can grow and evolve. I believe there are sufficient fics here that follow the typical path of marriage, children and etc but I've always wondered what a more...realistic take might look like. 
> 
> The story is complete, but as it is 7:42am where I am now currently (and yes, I've not slept a wink and yes, I've written this story in one seating), I will only post part of it and leave the editing for the rest in the coming days. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

Love is the strangest thing to Enola. 

She knows love. Her mother loves her. Mrs. Lane loves her. In their own individual and _very_ eccentric ways, her brothers love her too. But the sort of love they have for her - and she, for them - is different. That much she is able to ascertain. 

What she doesn’t understand, is another sort of love. One that seems to dominate the realm of ladies novels - the _only_ books her mother quietly discouraged - but does a poor job of elucidating what precisely she feels. 

Perhaps it’s not what but why...and to _whom_ she feels this love for. 

Tewkesbury is a friend. It is natural and quite normal for one to have affection for a friend and she knows some friendships grow to that where one is indiscernible from a blood relative. But she is certain that she does not view Tewkesbury as a relative - certainly not as a _brother_ \- but it still confounds her what it is precisely she feels for him. 

She knows she finds him handsome. But one could find one anyone handsome. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but attractiveness did carry a measure of standardisation. He had a tall figure, sharp cheekbones and mesmerising dark eyes; he is the very paragon of a male lead Enola had found in her reading of romance novels - for science, of course - and it only served to confuse her further.

She knows her heart races when she sees him, just as though she’s run in circles in London, escaping Mycroft’s clutches. It beats just so and suddenly, when it has little practical and physiological reason to. Except, just maybe, to tell her something her rational mind refuses to acknowledge.

His touch makes her shiver. A contradiction. One shivers when one is cold or when disturbed. His touch is always warm; always welcome. His hand holding hers. His fingers brushing away a stray curl. His lips brushing on her fingers. Every single instance makes her shiver, even the very thought of them. An exception, she notes, is his hugs. It makes her...melt. It extinguishes frustrations and anger. It soothes and comforts. But it also - secretly - delights her to feel him so close. 

And the other exception, his kisses. They are few and far between, but each one leaves walking on clouds. Their first one, initiated by her, was one borne entirely out of necessity (or so she tells herself). The suspect they had been tailing had become suspicious of them and her quick thinking led to her pushing him into an alleyway, with her lips pressed to his. It is not till the suspect walks away, and Tewkesbury’s arms had snaked around her waist to deepen the kiss, did she realize a fake kiss had turned very real. But as soon as they parted ways, gasping for air, they had carried on with their mission as though nothing had transpired. 

The ones after, on his birthday, in the garden of his family estate. Every New Year’s. And the last one, a day before her twenty-first birthday, in his carriage parked outside her lodgings, with a promise of a surprise for her the next day.

It is with this analysis, Enola supposes - no, _knows_ \- she’s in love with her beloved friend the Viscount Tewksbury, the future Marquess of Basilwether.

When he looked into her eyes one fine evening, on the night of her twenty-first birthday - after a glorious and intimate picnic under the stars in his childhood treehouse - he told her he loved her for the first time. Even with his eyes brimming with the earnestness so characteristic of him and with a deep affection that makes her heart soar, she does not know why she could not bring herself to respond in kind. 

_“Enola?”_

_There’s a quiver in his voice that breaks her heart._

_“Enola, please. Don’t feel burdened to-”_

_“I feel no burden,” she intercepts quickly. “I’m just- I…” She struggles to find the words. She knows his mother has hinted of wanting a daughter-in-law. That she has her approval despite her unusual ways and notoriety. She knows what he’s planning to do that night and she curses the lack of clarity in her mind from being so in love for not having seen it come sooner._

_She knows what society papers write of them. Of their escapades together written off as trysts and not the adventures and solved mysteries they were. Of the inappropriate touches and longing looks - perhaps there was truth to that - and of the recounts by stunned witnesses who had been told stories by them that they were a married couple. A convenient cover in investigations, extremely inconvenient when one is a renowned Holmes sister and the other the youngest member of the House of Lords._

_And though the thought of spending her lifetime with him fills her with excitement, it is the afterthought, the expectations put upon married women in their society that extinguishes that excitement every time. Their union is an expectation. Not a matter of if, but when. Not one of love, but one where he makes an honest woman out of her._

_She knows she can’t be the wife he needs._

_So when he kneels on one knee - his eyes begging though it’s clear he already knows her answer - as he has chosen to torture himself to hear her say it out loud, she knows he has forced her to break both their hearts._

_“Please get up.”_

_“If it’s time you need-”_

_“Get up,_ please." _Tears are streaming down her cheeks now._

_“Enola, please,” he refuses to stand. The fool. “I can wait. Months. Years. However long-”_

_She closes her eyes, willing herself to stop the tears. This is not an occasion for tears. Not unhappy ones anyway. Young ladies were supposed to dream of this day._

_“You don’t have to worry about the duties of a Marchioness. Mother will-”_

_“We’ll resent each other.” That stops him. She opens her eyes and looks directly into his so he knows she’s serious. “I’ve seen what my mother went through, and she was not of the gentry. She loved my father, but she always had this...longing about her.”_

_“I can never resent-”_

_“Of course, it’ll be unimaginable now. We’re young and stupid!” She grasps his hands, tugging at them weakly to have him stand. He refuses to budge still. “But it will come. Eventually. With age our habits will ingratiate. I’ll find you stifling. You’ll find me unbearable. I...I never want to resent you,” she breathes heavily, squeezing his hands in hers. “You’ll be made a laughing stock with all my antics if I continue in my chosen profession-”_

_He frowns. “I have_ never _once cared-”_

 _“Well, I care!” She’ cries out. “I care that they mock you because of me. I care that they paint you as some sort of half-witted twit under my heel. I care that your family is so wonderful and lovely that I can’t bear to put them through the_ humiliation- _”_

_He stands abruptly at his full height - eyes locked with hers, staring down at her - and for once in the five years they know each other, Enola feels intimidated. The words he says next, makes her step back in shock. “Enola Holmes. You humiliate me.”_

_The blazing anger in his eyes - the hurt caused entirely by her - is both captivating and disarming._

_“You humiliate me in thinking that I can ever find it in me to resent you for doing the very thing you love.” Angry tears fill his eyes and even in the darkness, she can see how his pale skin is flushed. “You humiliate me by thinking - in_ assuming _\- that I have ever once cared for how they portray me.”_

_He stops momentarily to take a shaky breath, still looking straight into her eyes with an intensity that arrests her. His voice comes calmer now, but it is no less intense._

_“You humiliate me in thinking that_ any _of that matters when I love you so.” His shoulders slump with the final words and he steps closer to her, intimidating air gone with the gentle night breeze and he looks at her with such yearning it nearly sways her resolve._

_She shakes her head to regain some control over herself, and she finds herself gulping before speaking. “I’m afraid I have made up my mind on the matter.”_

_He’s silent for a moment - and to her, it feels like a lifetime, her heart going many miles a minute - before he gives his quiet and final reply and climbs down. “Then I shall respect it.”_

_She refuses to meet his eyes. Not even when he stops himself at the base of the tree, gentlemanly ways unshakeable as always and lifts a hand for her in the way he always does when he helps her down. Enola wipes her tears and shakily makes her way down, accepting his hand only to have it immediately released when both feet find firm ground._

_Dread overwhelms her and she quickly realises it’s because it will be the last they have to see each other. She wants to fight it - fight for them - but his face is scarily indiscernible and she knows she has inflicted enough damage. He will be engaged soon enough. He's already of age and there's already a line of young, suitable ladies eager to betroth themselves to him. Ones who know how to be a Marchioness. Ones who can produce heirs and raise little Viscounts without the distractions of a demanding career._

_When he helps her into her carriage and does not let his fingers linger as they usually do, she knows it will be the last she sees of him._

The night is etched deeply in her mind and is unlikely ever to be forgotten - and time will prove that just so - but even that night, when she held back her sobs in the carriage ride to 221B Baker Street and she collapsed into her unsurprised brother’s arms to finally unfold, whatever the reason Enola turned him down, she knows she did it out of love.


	2. Chapter 2

Six months later, on a gloomy New Year’s Eve morning, Enola reluctantly accepts an invitation from a former client to a dinner party. It is an unwise decision. A foolish one. Her heart is still raw, with its broken edges still laid bare. She knows _he_ will be there and she allows herself a brief fantasy of a reconciliation with the kiss she’s come to expect over the years when the clock strikes twelve. But this year - and the next, and the many others to follow soon after - will be different.

There will be none of his careful, gentle touches in the ballroom. None of him coaxing her out of her corner into a waltz. None of the comfortably quiet walks in the gardens, away from the eyes and noise of the party, ending with them sprawled on a meadow looking up at the stars. 

There will be someone else on his arm. Someone else, with the very ring he’s tried to place on her own finger only months before. Someone who can remain by his side, as he needs, as he grows into the Marquess he’s born to be.

Enola dresses for the event all the same as the sun sets in the horizon, but by the time she laces herself into a corset part ways, she decides she is suddenly afflicted with a serious case of the stomach flu. And after penning a quick apology to her host, she dons her brother’s old suit and roams the streets of London.

* * *

In spring when she is away in Bath on a case, residing in her client’s private cottage on the outer realms of the city, Enola finds an unsurprising announcement in a letter from her brother. It is placed unscrupulously at the end of his letter; a marked post script, buried underneath unusually long prose on the merits of the bachelor life he leads. Enola deduces it before she sees it. No other cause would have her brother write senselessly long letters.

_The Marquess is to marry Lady Millicent Armstong._

He even lists the date and place the ceremony will be held. She does not know what delusions her brother thinks she holds, but it tells her he still thinks her in a delicate state of mind from losing her best friend. 

Sherlock needn’t coddle her. 

She brushes a stray tear, ignores the returned tugs in her chest and readies herself for her investigations for the day.

* * *

On her twenty-fifth birthday, Enola solves her hundredth case involving a runaway son of an Earl. When Enola finds him, the deja vu of a young Lord in ordinary clothes, trying but failing miserably to blend in with the common folk sends a wave of nostalgia over her. It is for that reason, and that reason alone, she indulges herself in reading the society papers for the first time in four years. 

And on that very day, she learns that the Marchioness of Basilwether had produced an heir. There’s a tug in her heart, like one may pluck on the string of a viola, but as she has many times before, she ignores it and turns her attention to the new bills being argued on the parliament floor. 

* * *

It’s the turn of the century and Enola is now the finest detective in all of the British Isles at thirty-two. Titles have never flattered her and she’s certain she’s only been afforded the title with her brother’s recent retirement - and knowing her brother, she’s quite certain it’ll be a temporary one - but it opens up to her an exciting range of cases previously unthinkable.

Unbeknownst to her, her excitement as she enters a new century and a new world will come to an abrupt halt.

One cold winter morning as Enola walks to her brother’s apartment on 221B Baker Street, she’s swarmed by an army of reporters. It’s not a new occurrence to her and she waves them off as she picks up her skirts and makes her way up the small flight of stairs to the front door. 

She presumes they are there to inquire after her latest case, one involving a foreign Princess, found not to be kidnapped, but runaway to be with her beloved. It is an enchanting case she knows the papers will devour but it is not till one shouts a question does she pause, turning to face them with a look of shock that is immediately captured with a blinding light.

_“Miss Holmes! Your thoughts on the death of the Marchioness?”_

They need not specify which Marchioness. There can only be one that has a direct interest to her in these reporters’ minds.

_“Will you be investigating the case?”_

_“Are you still in love with the Marquess?”_

_“Do you suspect foul play?”_

_“Are you invited to attend the funeral?”_

Sherlock opens the door and the reporters close in, excited further by the prospect of interviewing and photographing not one but _two_ Holmeses and together at that. Enola does not notice him till he pulls her in by the elbow and slams the door firmly in the reporters’ faces. 

The slam of the door breaks her out of her reverie and she blinks at it, knowing Sherlock’s gaze is fixed entirely on her. He’s inspecting her reaction and isn’t quite sure what to make of it.

She’s hardly sure herself.

“It’s all over on the papers,” he begins curtly. A paper is shoved into her hands and she gulps, her eyes scanning the headlines. “Perhaps...you should write to him.” 

Enola shakes her head slowly, carefully but shakily folding the papers. It will be extremely improper of her to, even if she wishes with every inch of her being to give him all the comfort he requires through his grief. The same comfort he had afforded her when she had news of Mrs Lane’s passing many years ago, when they were still best friends, still ignorant of the demise their friendship was doomed to.

If there is a time to reach out to a dear friend, it is now. But the crowd outside tells her otherwise. Messengers and visitors to and fro his estate - both in London and in Basilwether - will be carefully monitored. He does not need a scandal to accompany his grief.

“Surely you are not thinking of calling on him?”

“Of course not Sherlock, I’m not an imbecile,” she snaps. Sherlock doesn’t flinch. If anything, it looks as if he fully anticipated an outburst of some sort. But it’s clear he’s mildly surprised she’s not going to do anything at all. That her usual disregard for social mores won’t be set aside, even for him. _Especially_ for him. 

Enola sighs resignedly and returns her attention to the papers. A drunkard driver and a head on collision. It seems the increased speeds motorcars offered had their risks, and especially in tandem with the excessive liquor consumption of their times. It’s truly tragic, but she’s certain it’s unlikely she’ll be called on to investigate such a case. 

But when she almost considers risking it and penning a consolation letter, the final line printed in the article makes her resolute in her decision and extinguishes the thought as soon as it comes.

**_She is survived by husband, James William Burnley, the Marquess of Basilwether, and child, William Louis Burnley, Viscount Tewkesbury._ **

* * *

A dream she had the night before brings her to the flower market one unusual sunny afternoon in London. The very one she had found him in all those years ago since their serendipitous meeting in a train cabin.

She doesn't even realise it, but she's wearing a dusty pink dress, just as she had on that day. A similar shade to the first pink rose - and the many others that followed after - he had handed to her.

Her feet take her down a winding, but definite path. She's retracing her steps, she realises. It's made difficult as the stalls are now arranged differently and she's finding herself circling around vendors and politely turning down their wares.

And then, she stops; right at the approximate place she was reunited with him.

There's a man there, tall and broad shouldered. He's turned away from her and in his hands, carries a bouquet of pink roses. There's a streak of grey in his dark hair and it's not till she catches a side profile of him does she feel her heart still.

He speaks comfortably with the vendor, purchasing a bouquet of pink and white camellias. He laughs at something the vendor says - a clear, hearty laugh that she recognises immediately.

She disappears into the crowds before he turns and she watches him peruse the other wares in the market. He's as handsome as she remembers. Age has given him a dignified smile and his eyes - her weakness - are as sweet and gentle with all he who looks upon, just as she knows him. There's the tell-tale tug in her chest and she feels her eyes well with tears of longing. Her body nearly pulls her to him but she reigns herself in, solidly placing herself behind a pillar some distance away. 

He's dressed as an ordinary man; not a Marquess, not a decorated soldier and certainly not a snooty member of the House of Lords. He addresses all he meets with the same warmth he conveys to everyone. He's still very much the man she loved. Loves.

He's married no longer, and his son is no longer a child. He hasn't opted to marry another, even as eight years has passed, even as his wealth and distinguished good looks would have afforded him another. He must have loved his wife dearly.

It is for that reason she finds it reprehensible that she is even considering approaching him. Disgusted with herself even. She sees the tint of sadness in his eyes and his smile; one of a widowed Marquess. 

She indulges herself with one more look at his handsome face and leaves. 

And when she returns to her townhouse a few hours later, it's to a beautifully arranged bouquet of roses, camellias and chrysanthemums on her doorstep.

* * *

In the summer Enola turns forty-five, she is visited by an apparition of him. Not quite one that’s phantasmal in nature - she’s quite sceptical on the existence of poltergeists and the like - but rather, the young man resembles him far too well. He has his towering height, his warm brown eyes and his charming smile. Even the manner he carries himself - all polished manners and careful, punctuated sentences - the very presence of the young man reeks of _him_ so much, she has to blink to ensure she’s not dreaming or projecting his younger self to the poor postman.

But it certainly isn't the postman.

“I’m Viscount Tewkesbury. But I far prefer William.”

He even introduces himself as such, in a fine suit and outstretched hand and all, and it pains her to draw her eyes down before her staring becomes impolite. 

“My father speaks so highly of you,” he shakes her hand earnestly as he says it. “When I was a little boy, I’d hear of all of the adventures you’d gone together and the mysteries you’ve solved.” 

“Well, your father was quite instrumental in many of them,” she smiles tightly, wondering how much exactly his son knows. “When he retired pending his marriage I had quite the difficult time accepting that he wasn’t quite as useless as I thought he was. I missed having a colleague. My own Dr Watson if you will.” 

She says it in good humour, but it is clear in the young man’s eyes that he knows. He knows of his father’s affections for a woman other than his mother, and he knows that their adventures together veered on the side of being extremely improper. So improper, his very existence would not have culminated. She doesn't know how, she just _knows_ he knows. 

She wonders if he’s disgusted and for once in a very long time, terror grips her heart if he’s here to condemn her as a mistress.

“I can assure you my father misses those adventures,” he smiles lightly. Enola carefully searches for resentment in his eyes, and is surprised to find none. “I believe he misses you dearly as well.”

Her breath catches at her throat and Enola finds herself averting her gaze before her eyes give her away. She considers sending him away politely. But it is evident he has taken great pains to see her. The mud on his fine shoes, the crumpled trousers and the shadows beneath his warm, but tired brown eyes indicated hours of continuous travel. Instead, invites him into her parlour for tea and she delights him with the more embarrassing tales she’s certain Tewkesbury - at least, the _former_ Lord Tewkesbury - likely failed to impart to his son. 

It warms her heart to hear the same laugh his father has and she indulges herself in seeing how his eyes crinkle in the corners just as he does. She’s glad he found happiness with another, for she couldn’t have given him the joy of the wonderful son who sits before her.

He turns for a moment and rummages through his briefcase. Enola blinks, not quite sure what to expect, but her brows raise as he produces a small pile of envelopes tied together with a bit of twine.

“I was…organising my father’s office...I’m sure you know he’s relinquished his position?” He looks at her and she nods slowly. 

On his forty-sixth birthday the Marquess had announced his intention to step down and “retire” from his position in the House of Lords. Constitutionally impossible, but the man was always eclectic as she was and had simply refused to attend. With the declining power of the peers, she did not expect any less from him. An indirect, but quiet vote of support, as he had lent to the suffragettes and the child labourers. As much as his position afforded him.

“Well,” He stops himself with a smile and takes a breath. “I found these in one of the drawers. Tucked away in the back...all addressed to you.” 

He places the item on the table and slides it closer to her. Enola’s fingers twitch with curiosity, but she keeps them rigidly around her tea cup. 

“I…” his face blooms pink - and of course, it’s just as his father’s does - and he shakes his head. “I must confess to have done the most dishonourable thing and opened one. You see, I was rabidly curious as to why there’s just so many but none sent at all and…” he gestures wordlessly to them. “I know it’s only right to pass them onto their intended recipient.” 

Enola continues to stare mutely at the stack of envelopes. The differing colours and varying levels of worn edges tells her they have been written across no small period. Not across weeks, nor months, but _years_. Centuries, even. The newest one, sits atop with the paper a stark white against the cream and faded yellows beneath it. Her name is written in a careful cursive she knows well and there’s a small comfort in knowing his penmanship hasn’t changed the slightest. He is very much the man she knew.

And she will be the woman he knows, for she has a similar stack carefully tucked away behind books in her library.

“I sincerely hope Miss, that I have not trespassed-”

“No,” she interjects quickly, giving him what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “I...I just never expected this.” 

She hears him hesitate but appears to reconsider the thought. She lifts her head to stare at him, and he feels her gaze upon her and jumps. 

“Does he know you’re here?” 

He looks at her wide-eyed and slowly shakes his head. Enola inhales sharply. She knows the answer to the next question, but asks it anyway.

“...Does he know you have his letters?”

His reply is slower, but as he shakes his head once more, Enola closes her eyes and sighs. 

“You’re a smart young man, surely you know what postage theft-”

“It is not theft, I am merely delivering letters he should have sent ages ago.” He’s looking directly at her now, and it absolutely _tortures_ her to know what possibly his father could have written to her all these years apart. She hears him pull his chair closer to her. “Miss Holmes...I love my father dearly.” 

“And I’m sure that love will find you easy forgiveness. It’s not too late to return these to-”

“And I know how he loves you.”

Her breath hitches and her damned fingers quiver. Enola might be extraordinarily nimble for her age, but even she is not resistant to the loom of age. “Lord Tewkes-”

“William, please.” 

“ _William_. Please, return these to your father.” 

She can sense the young man is fighting with need for propriety and for whatever mission he has tasked himself with, but she needs to remain resolute. 

“Will you allow me ten minutes to explain myself, Miss Holmes?”

“Enola, please.” She pours herself and him another cup of tea. “I don’t wish to chase you out of my home, William. But if you insist on pressing the matter, then I will have to. With great reluctance.” 

He gapes at her, but manages to strangle out her name. “E-Enola…” She bites back a smirk. It truly _pains_ him to be disrespectful, even at her own request. “My father...I could tell my father lived a life of profound regret.”

She bites her lip and stares at her reflection in her tea. Lines crease the outer corners of her eyes, lending her the same look of wisdom her father’s portraits had, though she doesn't feel quite as wise. A streak of silver stands out among the few loose curls framing her face. She’s sure she’s far too old for romances of any sort and though she’s begun to decline cases that take her far from London - favouring instead mentoring the lady detectives in the private investigations agency she established - she still fears what seeing him again would do to her poor old heart.

“He’s never alluded to it, of course.” He hastily adds, noticing her discomfort. “He loves us just as any father and husband should. I did not know how lucky I am to have such an attentive father till I spoke with my mates in Cambridge.” 

Enola nods, only to show she’s still listening. She knows for her heart’s sake, she should ask him to leave. But at this stage, there is no point of return. 

“Mother knew…” He swallows thickly before continuing. “Mother said that she knew before she married him what she was getting herself into. He told her about you before they were engaged...and in fairness, she had someone she once loved as well and understood him. She never once held it against him.” 

Enola lifts her gaze in surprise. “You were only six years-”

“She kept a diary,” he began. “Father was always kind to her. If anything, he respected her more than some of her friends’ husbands had. It was something of...an understanding they had. And well...since finding her diary, I’ve been talking to my grandmother as well. I never knew how much he had sacrificed for us.” 

It surprises Enola that Lady Tewkesbury - she supposes she’s to be referred to as the Dowager now - would speak of her positively when she’s broken both hers and her son’s hearts. 

“It’s only recently I’ve realised what exactly it is my father yearns for. I mean, perhaps there was a part of me that knew, intuitively, but it was incomprehensible to me. I’ve never been in love before.”

Enola closes her eyes once more, feeling the dreaded pulls to her heart. No, she can’t bear it. “Will-”

“He keeps newspaper clippings of the cases of all the cases you’ve solved...he follows them closely you know. We talk about it over our breakfast.” Enola flushes at the admittance. “And I suppose that’s when it became difficult to ignore. When I went away to Cambridge and he’s left alone in that big old house all on his own...the melancholy my father tried so hard to hide over the years - it became more apparent.” He pushes the pile of envelopes closer still. “This just confirmed my suspicions.”

It comes to no surprise to Enola that he’s a good husband and father. She never once doubted he would be. It is not to say Enola regretted her decision to turn down his offer in marriage, but she sorely regrets how his heartbroken face - disguised poorly behind a stoic expression - is the last she sees of him. Even two decades later, it fills her with dread to see him again. Not _because_ of him, but out of her own shame for breaking his heart. 

No one but Sherlock and Mrs Hudson knew of her own grief from that fateful night. How she had sobbed through the night. It was the first time her brother held her in his arms, quietly stroking her hair as Mrs Hudson attempted to coax soup into her with sympathetic mutters of “my poor dear”. Even Mycroft had surprised her with the quiet handing of a handkerchief when he visited her bedside. She had fully anticipated a full dressing down on her refusal of a Lord’s proposal.

But what does surprise her, is that he still manages to think of her. Through all these years apart; through all the years of silence. That he wrote her letters all while keeping up the perfect façade of the young Lord, husband and father. All while she soared in her career and forged new paths for young women with ambitions such as hers. 

“Miss Holmes?”

She blinks, jilted immediately from the depths of her mind palace. A place she retreats to when she’s distressed.

Is that what she’s supposed to feel now? Distressed? She doesn’t feel that precisely, but she feels a need to run away nonetheless. Just as she did when he knelt on one knee.

She inhales sharply, and the sudden motion makes the young Lord start a little. “Thank you.” It’s all she can manage. She doesn’t know what’s an appropriate response; to all he’s said, to the forbidden treasure he’s presented. 

“Will you meet him?”

She stares at him wide-eyed and he shrinks under her gaze. 

“I-I’m sure it’ll make him so happy.” 

He says it so meekly, it melts her - admittedly shaken - resolve. The intent is clear. He’s a sweet, adoring son who only wishes for his father’s happiness. She stares back at the pile of letters, her fingers trembling at the mere thought of having to face him again. 

After a prolonged silence, with his poor son carefully watching her expression, she whispers a soft affirmation.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I cannot tell you enough how sorry I am for this -extremely- delayed chapter. A lot of things have happened and amongst the chaos, I have forgotten to find time to edit and upload the final piece to this story.
> 
> Nonetheless, I hope you will enjoy a little piece of my heart. Here's hoping this year will be less tumultuous then the one before!

Enola does not know what malady has come upon her to have agreed to see him, but she supposes it is far too late to turn back now. 

She also does not know why the realization only occurs to her when she is in a motorcar, driven by his son, making its way down the expansive road towards his estate.

She tries her hardest not to catastrophize scenarios of how he will react to her, and though she trusts William, she’s not certain she knows him well enough to deduce whether his father’s apparent lingering affections for her were not a figment of his young imagination.

Before her departure, she had received a telephone call from Mycroft’s butler, requesting her attendance for tea. It tickles her how even in his advanced age, her eldest brother retained some of his pomp and grandeur, but had graciously mellowed from his old cantankerous ways. 

In her younger years, Enola would never have imagined willingly taking tea with Mycroft. But since Sherlock’s passing in recent years - an affliction to the lungs from his tobacco habits - a bridge had slowly formed in the chasm between the surviving Holmes siblings. An unsteady one, but a bridge nonetheless. 

When she had shared the encounter with William at her doorstep, and his request to see his father, Mycroft reacted in a manner she did not expect.

_“I hope you accepted the invitation,” Mycroft’s fingers tremble slightly as he lifts his teacup to his lips, squinting at her through his eyeglasses. “A connection within the gentry is still valued no matter how times may have changed.”_

_Enola resists the urge to roll her eyes and instead, casts her gaze out to the gardens of her childhood home. It's no longer the wilderness that she fell in love with in her youth; the ivy tamed, bushes cut. Despite all that, to her surprise, Mycroft had retained much of her mother’s work inside the manor. Her paintings still hung on the walls, her prized library untouched and the little olive tree she had planted a year before her own passing had grown and had begun to bear fruit._

_“Yes, I will be meeting him on Friday.”_

_“He is expecting you, then?”_

_Enola bit her lip, hesitating for a moment before shaking her head. Mycroft’s greying brows raise in surprise._

_They sat in silence for several minutes after, quietly sipping tepid tea and nibbling on cake as the afternoon country sounds filtered in the sunroom._

_“If it’s any reassurance, he was still equally insufferable as he had been in his youth before his...retirement.” Mycroft says the word with a wince, and Enola bites back a smile. There’s a part of her glad that her brother hasn’t entirely changed. “And…”_

_Mycroft’s sudden hesitation makes her shift her gaze from out the windows to his face. It’s contorted to an emotion she can not quite place, especially as it is not a look that has ever graced his face.  
_

_Was that remorse?_

_“And perhaps you will be the sole Holmes that will decide not to live life alone.”_

William turns to her to give her a comforting smile. It still secretly rattles her how eerily like his father he is. She almost expects him to rest his gloved hand over hers, and trace soothing circles over her fingers as he used to do when she’s anxious over a case.

The trepidation turns to nausea and then a wave of nostalgia as William leads her through the very grandiose hallways they had to fight for their lives. They had been not much older than William is now; it makes her marvel at how time has passed by them. 

There is a noted change to the grand manse - many changes, in fact - for it appeared to display a great deal less frippery than Enola’s memory serves. The portraits still hung unflinchingly, displaying the solemn faces of the long, illustrious line of the Basilwether name. She quickly realises there are fewer servants than she remembers, with the small handful she had sighted hiding in the corners no longer wearing the gaudy attire typically required of them.

They pass by what appears to be a schoolroom. There were polished, wood desks arranged in neat rows with small children bent over books, listening to the teacher in the front. William gives a short nod of acknowledgement and the young man momentarily pauses mid-lecture to give her a curious stare. Enola recognises the expression. It's one where people squint, as if trying to recall where they had seen her face and then it’s followed by the look of realisation as his brows raise.

She gives the man a serene smile and hastens her pace to match William's as he turns a corner down the halls. Enola finds more schoolrooms and a distant memory drifts to her of Tewksbury mentioning his father's wishes of opening a school for orphans and the poor.

“Father established a school on the estate,” William nods in acknowledgement towards the other teachers. Enola's pleased to note plenty of women employed among the tutors teaching mathematics and the sciences to a young audience of both girls and boys. "He's commissioned for a purpose-built building on the estate, closer to the lake for the children to swim in the summers. But it's taken quite some time building it. He's decided to open the manor to them for now, though I don't suppose it's going back to being a stuffy old Lord's home anytime soon." William laughs and though he hasn't said it, Enola knows without a doubt the man has plans to take his father's legacy further.

There's a strange sensation in her chest, one she increasingly recognises as pride. Just as she had taken on some young women under her wing and seen them flourish. But this time, it's a different sort of pride. It's not of the maternal-like affection she had for her young detectives, but one of gripping gratitude that he was able to find his place in this cruel world, and live out the dreams he had confided in her many decades prior. Relief that he truly was the same kind and gentle creature she had fallen so madly in love with, but had been far too terrified to dedicate her life to.

Her hands begin to tremble now and her mind immediately ceases to think rationally. It's a feeling she was accustomed to as a teenager, being near him. But as a woman of a certain age now, she fears passing out before him.

"William," she manages to call out breathlessly and the young man's excited pace stalls as he hears the tremble in her voice. He's by her side in an instant, scarily cognizant of the anxiety she feels.

She rests a hand over her chest, feeling the tell-tale pick up in her heartbeats. It is a feeling she hasn't experienced in _years_ , and the intensity of the palpitations frightens her. It's equal parts incredibly silly, overdramatic and - though she loathes the word - hysterical. How often do people meet their first loves again? How often do women meet the men they have jilted? That they have hurt?

And how often do any of those chance meetings end in happiness?

William is hesitating next to her, clearly unsure of whether she requires more encouraging, or smelling salts.

"I understand the apprehension you must feel, Miss Holmes," William hands her a handkerchief and it dawns on her then that there was a singular tear running down her cheek. "If you feel it is far too soon-"

"No." She stops him abruptly.

Enola straightens her back, swiping off the tear with a quick swipe and her chin lifted in a determined frown. There are some parts of her that will never change, after all.

"I have hidden away long enough."

* * *

Her first sight of him is no different - no less ethereal - than the instances she had laid her eyes on him at the flower market, both a few years ago and in their youth. The sun's rays will hit his eyes just so - highlighting those warm, chocolate irises of his that have her reminded of days cuddled together before a fireplace in a dodgy inn, with a shared cup of cocoa in their hands. His brow is furrowed and his back bent as he focuses on trimming the rose bushes; his favoured tea roses in her favoured shade of blush.

Since the last she had seen him, the streak of grey in his hair had spread. There's still youth brimming from his eyes and his posture - no doubt from the hard work he puts into the estate gardens - and the hair on his head looks as silky and thick as she remembers threading her fingers to. She cannot think of anyone else who is able to age so gracefully.

Enola turns to William, only to discover the young man had disappeared, leaving her alone in the gardens with _him_ and the singing birds on the trees.

The trepidation is ever-present, but what she feels now is different. She allows herself to enjoy the sight of him, so close in proximity, and just a soft breath away from a reunion. She admires the sweat on his brow, the veins on his forearms and his greying hair flopped over his eyes just as it did in his youth.

Lord, curse the man and his exquisite, good looks. Imagine her, nearly half a century in age and ogling him as though she had only broken out of Miss Harrison's the day before.

It is then he stands up abruptly, the shears in his hand dropped. His eyes are wide, entirely on her and it sends a shiver down her spine.

"Good morning," she offers lamely. Her voice just a tad higher than normal, but she is certain a good spot of tea - with a generous slosh of brandy - will cure that in an instant. "I was invited for lunch."

He still stares at her, utterly awestruck. Enola shifts underneath his gaze, her cheeks warming. She averts her gaze to her skirts, smoothing out imaginary creases. The silence between them is unbearable and the chirpiness of the birds began to ingratiate. This isn't the tender reunion she had hoped for. It's best she takes her leave.

Before she can turn away, his long legs close the distance between them and she's in his arms again. At last. Enola sinks into his embrace, heavy with relief. She tries to fight it, but tears prick in her eyes nonetheless.

Her name is spoken in soft, breathy whispers. His arms are firmly locked around her, as though he's afraid she'll disappear into thin air as she tends to do. It takes her a minute, but her own arms eventually enclose around him. Perhaps nowhere near as tightly as him, as she still is weak in the knees.

A few decades ago, this would have caused quite the scandal. But they are ancient beings now, with the full suite of eccentricities still intact from their youth. 

"Everytime I am in London, I ask the stars if I may see just a glimpse of you," he murmurs suddenly into her hair. She holds her breath, unsure of what to say to him. "I once gathered the courage to see Sherlock, but I might have had better luck conversing with the King."

"You might have," she laughs finally, - freely, without the inhibition they had before - her arms squeezing him in affection. "His Majesty does owe me a favour, after the case I solved for him."

"Goodness!"

He loosens hold only then, but only enough for him to have a good look at her. The sheer admiration in his eyes, the grateful wateriness in them and the crinkles in the corners framing it all - oh, she's never once stopped being in love.

"Now, that is a story I am _desperate_ to hear."

"I'm sworn to secrecy, I'm afraid," she smiles, a surprising teasing edge to her tone. Perhaps she still had her wits about her after all. "But I suppose, for an old friend..."

"I will bring it with me to my deathbed," he promises solemnly, eyes twinkling with the same mischief as the day they first met.

For a moment, they only stared at each other. The euphoria slowly descending from its high, to one of tender wonder. Their mingled breaths sent shivers down her spine, as did his hands on her waist, radiating heat through her waistcoat. Enola cannot count the number of times they had been in this exact position before, but this exact moment is different from those.

"Tewky..." she whispers, her eyes searching his, hoping beyond hope that he can somehow hear the many thousand thoughts racing through her mind that her tongue fails to deliver.

"Enola," he whispers in turn. "You have no idea how I missed hearing that."

"You used to hate it."

"The name, yes," he smiles, leaning his forehead against hers. "But not when it comes from your lips."

Enola tries her hardest not to swoon.

A hand lifts to cup her cheek and she does not resist when her eyes close and her cheek leans to it to savour its warmth, resting her own over it. It’s no longer soft as the aristocratic young man’s had been. She feels indents of cuts and the effect of years of gardening have done on his palms. They may have worn with age as hers have, but it is no less gentle and comforting. It fits perfectly as it always has against her cheek, with his thumb lightly tracing over her cheekbone.

When he steps back, Enola feels the loss of warmth immediately. She hasn't realised how cold it is, a cool but bright Spring morning, with the morning dew still glimmering beautifully on the roses. Tewky looks at her still in a state of awe and Enola finds herself tucking a stray curl behind her ear shyly. 

"Will you walk with me?"

She nods and he offers her his arm.

* * *

What was supposed to be a turn around his gardens quickly turns into a slow trek into the dense woods behind the manor. The exact woods they would often run to for refuge in their youth, away from the judging, prying eyes of society. 

Each step brings forth a new memory to Enola. And each makes her savour the warm hand resting over hers, tucked securely in the crook of his arm.

They had spent the morning talking away, catching up after many decades apart. Of the brand new world and all it's equally frightening and exciting new frontiers. Of the start and end of the World War - perhaps the only time Enola had seriously considered posting her letter to him - and the many years in between.

She learns of the great lengths he had went to to establish the school on his estate, insistent that the people of neighbouring villages should be welcome to his ancestral grounds. She ignores how her heart flutters just as it would when she was young as he speaks passionately of the new conservatory he plans to build in his father's name, of the scholarships he plans to award to young, promising boys _and_ girls. He isn't the boy she used to know, but he's certainly a man his younger self aspired to be.

Even after the sun climbs to its peak and has begun it's slow descent into the horizon, they continued their windy path around the estate grounds. Their chatter slows to a comfortable, companionable silence and it's clear that Tewky too - she still absolutely refuses to call him _James_ \- is quietly relishing in the high from the reunion as she is.

His fingertips occasionally graze over her knuckles, tracing over old scars he himself had tended to in the past.

Enola wishes she can bottle this day forever.

But that temporary must come down, and it does dip as they come to a halt before the very treehouse they had shared their last moment together.

It is then, in the most inconvenient of times, Enola feels the dam in her chest burst, and tears drip down her cheeks. She's too slow to quickly brush them away as Tewky had immediately sensed the sudden shift in her mood.

She anticipates his monogrammed handkerchief to be politely pressed to her hand, but instead, he brushes the tears tenderly away with his thumb. His own eyes brim with moisture, and there's an understanding in his eyes that reassures her that she need not tell him what is on her mind. She never had to, in her youth. He has always been scarily in tune with her mind.

"I'm sorry," she manages between sniffles. Chuckling a little in the silliness of it all, crying as though she is a little girl still. "I'm not sure what overcame me."

“There’s absolutely nothing for you to apologise for, Enola.” His voice is so gentle and loving, it releases a new round of tears. And just like the ones before, they are tenderly brushed away by a calloused thumb.

In his eyes she sees the forgiveness she has been desperate for. She sees the longing, the kind understanding of her disappearance from his life. How she had done it all for him. How he had let go of love, for her dreams. Truly, she did not know what she had done to deserve such tenderness, but she knows now not to question it.

She wants to accept it, and give it in turn.

"There's so much more I want to say," she starts, looking up morosely at the tree house. How much of her true feelings he does not know, how much he still manages to linger on in her thoughts with every new suitor that comes to the fore over the years. The sky has begun to dim and her stomach grumbled reminding her of their missed lunch. "I don't even know where to begin..."

"We have time now," he whispered, his hands finding hers. "I have much to tell you as well. Though, I suppose my William has given you all my letters?" A light blush blooms on his cheeks, accompanying his sheepish smile and just like that, Enola's despondent mood is dissipated.

"I've not read them," she laughs, squeezing his hand in reassurance in turn. "I'd be quite horrified as well if someone had passed on my own bundle of letters to you without my permission."

She watches in amusement as his brows disappear into his hair and only noticed then how the long, dark lashes he had in his youth have lightened with age. It brings her back to the present. To the impending loom of an inevitable death in the (distant) horizon. A sobering thought, but it serves more to motivate than frighten. It makes her resolute in her decision. She wants to spend the rest of their days with him. To go on more adventures together, navigating this brave new world, and to grow old together. 

"May I...read them?" he asks breathlessly, looking at her straight in the eyes. "Of course you may read all of mine."

"No."

His shoulders slump and Enola's façade is quick to go. She grins widely - her cheeks have begun to ache from all the smiles of the day - giving him a playful punch to the shoulder. The first in many decades.

"I'd much rather tell it all to you in-person."

* * *

By nightfall, Enola finds herself being escorted to a waiting motorcar. The driver had made an excuse of some other needing fuel and disappeared into the darkness - no doubt William’s work - and it left them a moment of privacy to say their goodbyes.

What was originally intended to be a small, surprise lunch turned to a long, private dinner of more talking. Her recounting more tales of her detective work as Tewky listened with rapt attention and him, of William’s little escapades as an adolescent. Already, Enola feels something of a maternal affection for the boy which would have ordinarily horrified her, but now, it feels only natural. 

The stars above them seemed to shine brighter, but Enola knows it’s an illusion from her own giddiness. The air is cool on her warmed skin and already, there’s a twinge in her heart, reluctant to say goodnight. 

Tewky slowly releases her hand in his arm, but let’s his fingers curl around hers just before it slips away. Enola looks up to meet her eyes and is stunned to see the melancholy in them. 

“What’s wrong?” There’s a part of her that already knows what crosses his mind. He’s thinking back to that day. The day when she had broken his heart.

The way he looks at her never ceases to make her heart squeeze with need. He still holds her hand delicately, as though she’s a young maiden needing to be escorted into her carriage by her suitor. It’s a feeling she secretly enjoys but she’ll be cold in her grave before she admits it out loud.

He turns her gaze to her fingers in his - still fitting so comfortably, as though it was meant to rest there - and his thumb skims lightly over her knuckles. “The last time I let go of this hand, I never saw you again.”

Her breath catches at her throat and her lips part for a quick reassurance but it dies in her throat as he leans forward to press a delicate kiss over her fingers. A memory immediately plays in her head; back to the very first time he had done that to her. Outside the gates of Parliament House and right in full view of his scandalised uncle and bemused mother.

Just as he lifts his head, Enola pushes herself forward to seal her lips over his. A promise to be his, and to dedicate her heart to his. It does not take him too long to reciprocate, much to her relief, and he returns it with greater fervour much to her delight. 

Enola shivers as he whispers her name against her lips, his hands sliding up to cradle her head to deepen the kiss. They part only when they hear the distant, returning footsteps of the driver. They laugh quietly, panting and their breaths mingling. In awe of the effect one still has on the other.

The kiss has ignited something in her that had been laid dormant for far too long. A need even she’s far too embarrassed to say out loud, but she’s certain from looking into his eyes that he knows _precisely_ what she requires.

“May I call on you?”

Enola’s breath hitches. “Of course you may,” she smiles coyly. “Only if you are willing to climb through my bedroom window.”

He laughs good-naturedly, a wondrous sound she's determined to hear more of. “My old bones won’t allow it,” he leans forward, pressing another kiss scandalously close to the corner of her lips. “But for you, I am willing to try.”

“I meant that in jest,” she mumbles, flustered to be subdued by a kiss from him. “Please don’t scale the walls, the tiles on the roof are really quite slippery.”

“Speaking from experience I suppose?”

“But of course.”

He grasps her hands again, and his lips part as though he wishes to say something. He rethinks it, as his lips close and he looks into her eyes with the same tender look that makes her melt into a puddle. They had time now. It can wait. The years still stretched before them, and though it is a morbid thought, only death can keep them apart now. 

He leans forward once more, and Enola braces for another kiss. But his lips brush delicately over her forehead. It's a cherished, sweet kiss, made with a promise of a lifetime of more; more love, more friendship, more adventures into the unknown before them. It’s more sacred than any marital vow and it’s enough to ignite hope of an enduring love in her heart. 

He whispers goodnight and helps her into her seat. There's a devilish glint in his eye as he tucks a stray curl behind her ear that tells her he'll be sneaking into her room come midnight.

As the driver returns to his seat, surreptitiously keeping his eyes averted away from them - Enola can tell from his smirk he has seen it all - Tewky closes the passenger door and reaches in to kiss her hand. 

And just like that, she's once more a blushing twenty-year-old lady, madly in love with her best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely hope you've enjoyed this! Your thoughts, screams and such are always cherished!


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